Practically a Hundred

“Joe, Why so blue? You should be happy today.”
“Sorry, hon. I’m just feeling old.”
Don’t worry. I’m just going through a temporary funk. I recently had a birthday. Okay, it was yesterday. The wife surprised me by taking time off from work and knowing me so well, she suggested a day at the beach. We relaxed enjoying the peaceful quiet offered to anyone willing to walk for twenty-five minutes down the shoreline. We find that puts us a safe enough distance away from anyone toting a kid or a boom box. Just us old fogies here!
“So, Joe, you caught up to me again.”
Each year she just can’t wait to say that to me. She is sixty-two days older than me and I relish those sixty-two days while I can say I’m married to an older woman and tease her about her being older than me. On her birthday I said …
“Wow, honey. You’re fifty-seven years old now. How does it feel being that old?”
“Shut-up, stupid. Answer that yourself in a month.”
“Uhm? Excuse me! That’s two months and two days, sweetie!”
I think the mild gloom I’m experiencing is because I’m so close to being sixty. I didn’t mind turning thirty, forty or even fifty, but for some reason being sixty sounds really old. Even the AARP, who has been bugging me for years to join their club, is advising me to hurry up because time is running out.
“Joe, lighten up, we’re really not that old.”
“We’re not?”
As soon as I got home I started up the old “Brain Train” to take a trip down memory lane. “Alllllllllllllll Aboard!”
So here we go. Search on “1951”, the year I said my first word … “Bwaaaaahhh!” Translation … “Hello, I’m practically, Joe.” Mom and dad hadn’t named me yet.
(Click.) Oh God! I arrived before hair spray, frozen foods, credit cards, ballpoint pens, radar and digital clocks.
Here's a link to 1950's phrases. (Click.)
When I was a kid we spoke a whole different language from kids today. Here are a couple of examples.
2008: “Wa’sup dawg? Lets chill at your crib with those crazy-ass biaches yo! Aight?”
1951: “Hey daddy-o. Let’s find some hip chicks and go to your pad.”
2008: “I’ll take my 45 and put a cap in your ass!”
1951: It doesn’t even translate. A 45 was a vinyl record. We did, however, play cowboys and Indians with cap guns but with pretend horses not donkeys.
(Click.) Hmmm … here’s a site explaining how the moral values of people living back in the fifties differ from today. It says here that most couples back then didn’t live together until after they got married. Society provided children with a happier childhood, producing happier children who in the process became more responsible adults. And, authority was respected and appreciated; this included the police, presidents, and teachers. Can we state in fact that here, in 2008, we have progressed? It was like another world back then.
Crap! This is bringing me down again. Quick, let's click on that link. (Click.)
Wow! A gallon of gasoline was only twenty-five cents and a Chevy Coupe sold for $600. Yearly salaries averaged less than $3000. Cigarettes were twenty cents a pack. Nobody knew the dangers of smoking. Pantyhose weren’t invented. Women wore silk stockings with garter belts. (Click.) Hmmm … what do we have here?“I see you’re feeling better, Joe.”
”Oops!” *Startled … Brain Train comes to screeching halt! (Click. Click.)
“Hon, really, blogging keeps me feeling young.”

Google Saved the Day!

“Yo.Yo.Yo. Manager Joe. What’s the dillio?”
“Hello there, dude, what’s happenin’?”
Okay, so maybe at my age I’m more likely to break a hip than to be hip. But, I try. As a restaurant manager at a location close to a college, I interact with many customers, as well as employees, who are less than half my age. I really have little problem communicating with these kids (unless they are working in the kitchen, but that’s a story for another time). But sometimes a word comes out in conversation (like badunkadunk) that has me running to the office computer and logging on to my friend and translator The Urban Dictionary.
Thank the Lord for the Internet! I hated carrying that tattered pocket dictionary around and having to continuously sing the alphabet to myself just to get to the right page to locate a word. Not to mention it was very uncomfortable especially when sitting down. Fast forward to the future. Now, I have arsenal at my fingertips, whether I be in front of a computer or having to whip out my high-tech cell phone for the times I’m not.
“Sir, besides that I'm known to be an uxorious husband”
“Stop! What did you say?”
For that word I used one of the big guns, Merriam-Webster Online. With one extra click at this website you can hear the audio pronunciation of the word. Well … Can you pronounce uxorious?
“… He’s been hospitalized due to the scratchident.”
"Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Was he a winner?"
Sometimes you come across a really, really rare word. Let’s take for example the word “scratchident”. There was no dictionary on line giving meaning to this word. Even my spell-checker is saying “WTF?”
All that was left for me to do was hope for results as I pulled all the stops and Googled it.
Showing only one link in the results … Google saved the day! … Check it out!

Shopping with the Wife

“Joe, we need to do the food shopping.”
“Okay, I’m off Tuesday, I’ll do it then.”
“We should do it today. We’re out of a lot of stuff and the kids are coming for dinner tomorrow.”
“All right, all right! I’ll do it then! I’ll get ready and go.”
“Joseph Anthony! Don’t get snippy with me!”
“Mom??? Mom??? Is that you??? Is my mom here???”
“Look, Joe. I’m going to the supermarket. I didn’t say for you to go. I can do it myself.”
“Fine! I’ll come with you. Let’s just not take all friggin’ day.”
Uhm … What just happened? Well, I’ll tell you.
I pull my hair out hate get frustrated shopping with my wife. She drives me insane. She also, sometimes, drives other shoppers insane. Apparently.
I try my best to plan a time to shop when I’m off and she’s working.
I’m a good food shopper. Market Basket is one of my favorite places to visit. I go in. I get what we need. I go home. And I have lots of fun while I’m there.
I get to people watch.
“Excuse me Miss Oblivious mamm, I think one of your little ones is whip creaming aisle seven.”
I have fun placing odd items in other people’s carts when they’re not looking.
Big Burly Muscular Guy: “Hey, what the hell are these panty liners doing in my cart!”
Me: “Tee-hee” (As I deviously blend into the background helping the woman, who I think lives in the shoe, pull down one of her caboodle of monsters kids who was hanging from the third shelf in the same aisle.)
I like taking a dozen consecutive numbers at the deli counter and watch everyone look at each other as each number is called.
Anyway, I have fun when I go to the supermarket alone.
Over the years, my wife has witnessed my shenanigans and has become, let’s say, no longer amused.
It used to be fun with her along.
Like when I purposely grabbed someone else’s half-full shopping cart and nonchalantly stopped next to her, stepped away and then watched her push it along down two or three aisles placing new items into it.
“Joe, very funny! Now where’s our cart?”
Then there was the time I played cat and mouse with her for about ten minutes, laughing so hard my side hurt, as I kept guiding her to find me over our cell phones. “Joe, Are you freakin’ kidding me!! Where the hell are you?” Too funny!
So why don’t I like to shop with the woman I love?
We get out of the car … she has to always grab the first cart she sees in the parking lot.
“Uhm, honey ... there’s a thousand more inside.”
She picks up ten of everything before she puts one in the cart.
“Oh, good sweetie ... you found one you like.”
She reads labels.
“Hon! There’s the Healthy-Heart logo … what else do you need to know?”
She checks dates.
“Uhm, Domenica … stop moving around all the sushi containers. You’ve already reached the bottom of the pile and the Japanese guy is staring at you … and he’s not smiling.”
She never picks an item sitting on the front of a shelf.
“Geez sweetheart ... be careful, there may be spiders back there!”
And then there’s this …
Remember I said she drives other shoppers crazy too?
Well, she recently told us (our daughters and I) a story about some “crazy” woman at the supermarket. She was shopping alone for a few items, one of which was a loaf of Italian bread.
She explains how this “mad-crazy” woman came over to her as she was choosing the right loaf to take home.
Crazy woman: “What are you doing?”
My wife: (innocently) “I’m picking a loaf of bread.”
Crazy woman: “Oh, I can help you with that.”
My wife: (cautiously) “No thanks, I can do it myself.”
Crazy woman: (now right in my wife's face) “No, I insist! I’ll find you a good one!” The woman begins to pick up every loaf of bread, gingerly squeezing each one a few times repeating over and over again … “Is this a good one? … Is this a good one? … Is this a good one?”
My wife: (confused) “Look, lady! Thanks, but I don’t need your help. I’m taking this one.”
So she tells us this story, amazed at the audacity some people exhibit to total strangers. She was convinced the woman belonged in the funny-farm.
I’m thinking … the poor lady. She was “mad” all right. She was most likely watching my wife for ten minutes picking up every loaf trying to select the one she wanted, while she (the poor woman) was waiting her turn hoping my wife would leave at least one loaf untouched.
After discussing the story we were all convinced my wife drove the “crazy” woman over the edge.
All these things add up to this … she adds an extra hour to every shopping trip and aggravates me (and others) … and when I go food shopping with her I can’t wait to get to the check-out line.
Beatrice: “Sir, would you like paper or plastic?”
Me: “Oh Beatrice, would you let your manager know I looked up and down the stationary goods aisle and couldn’t find any invisible ink?”
My wife: “Joe, go stand over by the door!”
“Yes, dear.” … See … no fun.

My Musical Beach Day

“So, Joe, you’re back to work tomorrow.”
“Yep, I think I’ll head to the beach today.”
Summertime is my favorite season. I really enjoy hanging out at the beach and I live close enough to jump in the car and be there in just a few minutes. My wife said I spend too much time in my room and I should get out and exercise. So I packed a lunch (egg salad for me and chips for the seagulls), ironed my Speedo (I always like to look good) and grabbed my cap. My wife often reminds me …
“Joe, make sure you leave your hat on!”
“Yes dear, I don’t want to burn my hair.”
So, off I went. It was a beautiful day, the clouds were a bit thick and although there was an invisible sun, I really felt the heat on my back and shoulders as I casually strolled along the water’s edge.
"Owwwwww! Damn kids and their stupid holes in the sand!”
Oops! Sorry, but that hurt. A little deeper and I’d have to learn Japanese (or is it Chinese?)
Has that ever happened to you? You know, you’re not watching where you going and suddenly one leg will just keep on going down.
Anyway, I continued to limp along, humming a tune.
When I got home a few hours later, my wife, home from her day at work, greeted me at the door.
“So, Joe, how was your day? Was it something to blog about?”
“Since you asked, I did come up with an idea. I’m going to post a music video blog.”
I hope you didn’t mind all the links and stayed a while to enjoy the music. I’m pretty tired now so I think it’s time to hit the pillow and head off to never never-land.
Goodnight.

The Dryer Prep Pole

“Joe, What are you doing?”
“Uh, what’s it look like? I’m starting a load of laundry.”
Between you, and me, I don’t care what she thinks. When it comes to doing the laundry, my system works best. Over the years, although she won’t admit it, she has adopted many of my practices in dealing with the overflowing hamper. But still, she has her own ways that tend to aggravate me. I am practical. She is practically crazy.
Some things that we can’t agree on have resulted in her having her own dirty clothes bag where only her things go. It’s like her safety bag because I’m not allowed to wash anything that sits in it. It’s a rule. I can’t wash any of it. It’s like all her clothes are special or something.
“Don’t worry about the clothes tonight, Joe. I can do the laundry tomorrow.”
“It’s no problem dear, I’m down here on the computer anyway.”
Our laundry room is down in the basement in the same room as my office. So, it’s convenient for me to tend to the laundry while using the computer. We have our own little “Laundromat”. It consists of a washer, dryer, ironing board, folding table and a dryer prep pole. This has been the set up for the past fifteen years. Now you may be wondering, “what the heck is a dryer prep pole?” Well, let me explain. I invented it. That’s right, it was my idea not hers. You see, a long time ago we used an outdoor clothesline. What a pain in the neck that was. You had to lug the wet clothes to the bedroom window, which was located two floors above the laundryroom, and then, using clothespins, take each article of clothing and hang it out over the yard for the world to see. I hated it. There they were, her panties, my jockeys and the laughing neighbors. The clothes came back into the house smelling like “dog” and if it rained, sometimes you were lucky enough to quickly pull in semi-dried articles. If it rained and you weren’t lucky, you’d have to take the clothes back down to the machine and run them through the spin cycle again because they were soaked and so heavy the line stretched so low that the clothes were touching the ground.
Can you believe she still reminds me from time to time that I haven’t put up a new clothesline for her yet? So, using a wooden pole from an old closet and propping it up horizontally between two upright hat racks, I invented the “dryer prep pole”. I then convinced her that it was more practical to just take the clothes out of the washer, put them on hangers and hang them on the dryer prep pole. When they’re almost dry, we pop them into the dryer and add a softener sheet to fluff them up, take out the wrinkles and eliminate any future static electrical shock. Best of all the laundry comes out of the dryer not smelling like dog.
“Joe, you haven’t washed your new shirt yet, have you?”
“Don’t worry. All taken care of dear.”
When she does the laundry she annoys me because she makes things more difficult than they have to be. Like when she has to turn everything inside out before putting them into the washer and then she turns them back outside in before hanging them. I hate turning wet clothes from inside out to outside in. I’m not even sure if it is “outside in” because when you do it you’re really putting the outside back out. I get very confused. Then, she never hangs the clothes with the same amount of space between the hangers when she hangs them on the dryer prep pole. Some items touch making them take longer to dry. I have to continuously re-space them. She doesn’t make sure all the front of the shirts and pants face in the same direction. She doesn’t rotate the hangers for even wear. She hangs socks. Who hangs socks?
When I do the laundry, it’s done right!
“Joe, I just come down to say good night, I’m going to bed.”
“Okay hun, good night, I’ll be joining you as soon as I’m done down here.”
“Joe? Are those my new shorts hanging there? Why are they pink? They were white earlier today!”
“Uhm … what? Er … well I … uhm … huh?”